


The Scientific Method

by kscribbles



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kscribbles/pseuds/kscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Give me something with Peter painting Charley's nails black. Could be when they're snuggling in Peter's bed, recovering in the post orgasmic glow. Could lead to creating said post orgasmic glow. Could be when they're both bored as hell -- I really don't care what the circumstances are. I just need Peter to paint Charley's nails black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scientific Method

**Author's Note:**

> OP also sez, "Guys wearing black nail polish is hot okay shut up." Yes, yes it is. :) Written for the lj community FrightNight2011's kinkmeme: http://frightnight2011.livejournal.com/718.html

Charley was nodding off, enjoying a content post-orgasmic glow, when he felt Peter pull away from his back. He never knew with Peter. Occasionally, after sex, they’d lie together and talk for hours. Other times Peter would pass right out. Often he would jump out of bed and get a drink, or get cleaned up and head downstairs. This time, Peter didn’t go far, just sat up and lit a cigarette. Charley listened to the soft click of the lighter, Peter’s satisfied exhale of smoke.

“You still awake over there?” Peter asked.

“Yeah,” Charley mumbled. He heard a drawer open, a couple of dull glass clinks, and then a sharp, chemical scent he couldn’t immediately place cut through the smell of tobacco. Curious, he slowly rolled over onto his other side. Peter had his brown cigarette chomped firmly in his mouth and was concentrating on drawing a tiny black brush over a fingernail. Right, nail polish, that’s what that was. He leaned on his hand and stared, transfixed by Peter’s careful, practiced strokes.

“What?” Peter asked around the cigarette, noticing Charley staring.

“No, nothing. I’ve just never seen you…” He’d never really given it much thought. Sometimes Peter’s nails were black, sometimes they were chipped black, and sometimes they were as polish-free as Charley’s own. Why hadn’t he ever witnessed Peter polishing his nails? They killed vampires together, they fucked, they knew each other’s deepest darkests, but this seemed… oddly intimate. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he changed tack. “You know, it’s probably not the best idea to smoke and paint your nails in bed.”

Peter paused, shifted the brush between different fingers and pulled his cigarette away from his lips. “This coming from someone who lit himself on fire.”

“Yeah, to kill a _vampire_.” Peter smirked affectionately and Charley continued. “And, if you recall, _you_ set me on fire.”

“Yeah. Good point,” Peter allowed, then took a last drag and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray by the bed. He dipped the brush in the bottle again and resumed coating his nails. Each nail received a perfect three strokes of polish, a dip of the brush, dabbing it against the bottle, stroke, stroke, stroke. It created an almost hypnotizing rhythm. Or maybe, Charley thought, the fumes were getting to his head.

“So…” Charley said when Peter was nearly done with his second coat. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what? Set you on fire? I don’t make a habit of it. Except, you know, _metaphorically_.” Peter grinned at him.

Charley resisted rolling his eyes. “Paint your nails black.”

“For the chicks, man,” Peter deadpanned. “They love it.”

Charley cracked up laughing and Peter rewarded him with another small smile, his eyes twinkling. Charley didn’t bother pointing out the irony of the statement in light of their… current situation, or the fact that the sexy, rich, Vegas illusionist certainly didn’t _need_ black nail polish to get chicks. Charley, on the other hand, still needed all the help he could get.

“Does that work, though?” Charley asked, now trying to imagine what his own fingers would look like, tipped with shiny black, and deciding he’d look ridiculous. “I mean, say if you weren’t _you_ , just some regular dude off the street. Do girls find that hot?”

Peter looked at him curiously. “Do you?” he asked, capping the bottle and setting it aside.

“Find your nail polish hot?”

Peter nodded.

“I… I don’t know. It’s just, you know, part of who you are, I guess. Your image or whatever.”

“Which is?” Peter prompted, blowing on his drying nails.

“God,” Charley huffed, sitting up. “Stop fishing for compliments. You know you’re a damn sexy bastard. Now tell me what chicks dig about black nails.”

Peter laughed again. “Always so eager to learn. That’s one of the things I love about you, Charley. But you’d have to find a lady friend and ask her. They’ve told me they do. I know I like the way it looks and feels and that’s it. And that I _can_ show you.”

“Show me?” Charley’s mind was stuck a few sentences back, hanging on a particular word. He wasn’t sure what Peter was talking about just now.

“Give me your hand.”

Charley placed his hand in Peter’s without really thinking about it. The older man cradled it carefully, mindful of his still-wet nails. Then Peter reached for the bottle again and Charley understood his intent. He snatched his hand back.

“Watch it, you’ll mess up my fine work.”

“You’re not painting my nails, dude.”

Peter pouted. “How else will you know what it’s like? It’s the most scientific approach to answering your question, really. We’ll get you all varnished…” he rolled his tongue around the word, and Charley felt a simmering heat bubble through him. “…and then take you down into the casino. Besides,” and now Peter lowered his voice, “I think _I_ might find it hot, on you. I’d like to do my own study.”

Charley stared, not sure this time whether Peter was teasing him or not. “It’s the whole package, though, isn’t it?” he protested weekly, already lowering his hand back into Peter’s. “The black, the eyeliner…”

“Could be,” Peter answered absently, grabbing the bottle again and shaking it. “Now quiet and let me concentrate.”

Charley was nervous all of a sudden. It’s not like this was a big deal. It’s just that he and Peter were so different, and this small thing was uniquely Peter’s. Something he’d never thought to share. And he still thought it’d be ridiculous, but if it made Peter happy to try it… and if it made _other_ parts of Peter happy, it couldn’t be a bad thing… But he was still a little wary.

Peter gave his hand a squeeze. “It won’t bite, Charley, relax.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I’m relaxed.”

The first touch of the brush was cool, alien feeling, but it quickly got less weird as Peter continued. It felt kind of good, actually. Peter’s left thumb would absently stroke the back of Charley’s hand or wrist as he worked. Dip. Dab. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Again and again. And Peter didn’t speak, just kept his head bent to the task. Never outside of sex had Charley felt like so much of Peter’s focus was on _him_. His eyes widened in surprise as he felt his body begin to respond to Peter’s singular attention. It seemed like every day with Peter, Charley discovered new things that turned him on. But he said nothing, and Peter hadn’t noticed, just carried on with the brush, and soon Charley saw his hand transformed.

Without a word they smoothly switched together to the other hand and the rhythm continued. Charley tried to keep his breathing steady. Then back again for the second coat, and this shift somehow had Peter’s hand brushing against Charley’s lap, only the thin blanket between the back of Peter’s hand and Charley’s growing _interest_.

Peter paused, looked at him, and raised eyebrow. “Interesting,” was all he said, before he resumed applying the nail polish. Only this time the bastard made _sure_ to rest his hand against Charley’s hardening cock, apparently no longer concerned with his own nails. Though it seemed like Peter might have rushed through those last couple brush strokes.

By the time Peter was done, Charley was ready to shove him back on the bed and _immediately_ mess up his new manicure, possibly by grabbing fistfuls of Peter’s hair, but he forced himself not to move.

“What do you think?” Peter asked, sitting back, closing up the bottle, and setting it on the bedside table.

Charley barely made a pretense of examining his newly adorned fingers. He didn’t really care what he looked like. “What do _you_ think?” he asked Peter.

“I think,” Peter said slowly, “that in order not to destroy my painstaking work…” he pulled the blanket away, and Charley hissed in a breath as he was exposed to the air. Peter then took Charley’s hands and carefully placed them each palm down against the sheets, the implication being not to move them, _or else_.

Peter shifted to kneel between Charley’s legs, leaned forward and placed his own black tipped nails against Charley’s thighs, his breath ghosting over where Charley was now completely hard, as he continued, “…That you’re going to have to remain very, very still, while I do more research.”

 

FIN


End file.
